


dashed perfect.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Competence Kink, M/M, Minor Injuries, POV Jeeves, Pre-Relationship, Shaving, Tenderness, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Jeeves has a minor sprain to some of his fingers, and Mr Wooster offers to help him with his shave.





	dashed perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> For [this request](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/27552.html?thread=96928#cmt96928) on DW. Thanks for the request, raveninthewind!

“Sir—”

“Stay _still_ , would you, Jeeves?” Mr Wooster interrupts me, and I allow myself to fall silent, my lips falling into a loose line. The lather is a little cold as he brushes it onto my cheeks, over my chin, and I lean back just slightly in my chair, allowing him to draw it over the underside of my jaw. The scent of it is thick in my nostrils, a hint of lavender mixed in with the shaving lather, and his touch is supremely gentle, as if he feels he might hurt me merely by putting the cream on my skin.

I have watched him in the past ten minutes, sharpening his razor and then working it on the strop, and it has been curiously engaging, to see him with such function and poise: my master does very little for himself, instead allowing me to take care of most of his needs myself, as is only appropriate, and yet here… It is satisfying, in a way, to see him so quietly competent, and so graceful as he goes about his movements: I feel the same way when I watch him settle at the piano with anything more reserved than that which he comes back from the Drones with. With his razor, he is confident, and yet quietly so, in the way that he ordinarily is, here in the flat. He does not try to show off his skill, or draw attention to it. It is merely there, and that is that.

He is more graceful with a straight razor than any other master I have ever known. Even hungover – even _drunk_ – I have seen him swiftly and smoothly remove any ghost of hair from his cheeks, with a steady hand and an alacrity which would make him the envy of many barbers. Many of his fellows, I have noted, have abandoned the straight razors of their forebears and picked out these new _safety_ razors, and one or two of them even employ some manner of electric device. I had half expected, with the advent of the latter, that Mr Wooster should employ one, but he never showed even a passing interest.

“It was my father’s,” Mr Wooster says as he comes up behind me, setting a jug of hot water on the table before us. It is warm in the bathroom, still steamy with the hot water from my bath, but Mr Wooster had _insisted_ I not attempt to shave myself again after a single, small nick on the side of my jaw, and I glance down at the neat splint on my right hand. It is only a minor sprain of the fingers, owing to a very unfortunate matter of a thrown cricket ball whilst I had been bringing a telegram to the Drones. 

It has been several days, and I believe Mr Wooster is still treating the perpetrator very coldly. Mr Maurice Hall, a young initiate to the Drones with superlatively curly auburn locks, has been very apologetic indeed, and even went so far as to send a bouquet of flowers and a book of a volume by a new philosopher named Wittgenstein, apparently having taken instruction from some other members of the Club. It had been most thoughtful of him, I felt, despite the stupidity inherent in practising one’s pitching throws inside, but Mr Wooster has not spoken a word to him since, and apparently ignores him entirely when he is in the room.

“I didn’t know that, sir,” I say, and I look at the razor in his hand in the reflection in the mirror, at the polished ivory of the handle, at the shining blade. It looks natural, resting in his palm, and I say, “Sir, this really isn’t nec—”

“Oh, shut up, Jeeves,” Mr Wooster says, but I see him smile as he says it, and he comes up behind me. I can feel the warmth of his body at my shoulder, and I swallow. Slowly, as if hesitant, he draws his fingers into my hair, which is soft and still slightly damp from my bath, and I feel his fingers draw over my scalp, watch his lips part in the mirror. The steam that clings to the glass obscures my view somewhat, and I resent it, wish that I could see, precisely, the look in his eyes. “So soft, Jeeves. One could see you going without the pomade one day, what?” His tone is warm, and it drips down the back of my neck like honey. I can scarcely bear it.

“ _No_ , sir,” I say firmly. The smile lingers on his lips, and he leans in.

It doesn’t take long. As I said, he is quick with his razor, and skilled: it’s a smooth shave, and I let my eyes close as he draws my head one way and then the other, adjusting my pose that he might better draw the blade over my skin, leaving a tingling ghost of its presence in its wake. I keep my eyes closed even as he pats an aftershave onto my skin, cold and dry and scented with peppermint. It isn’t one I would ordinarily choose myself – I favour unscented aftershaves – but it’s a pleasant smell, much like the lavender.

I am very relaxed in my chair, I note: Mr Wooster works with easy skill, his hands warm and pleasant, and neither of speak a word to one another. My eyes only open again when I feel the comb in my hair.

Mr Wooster is looking at me in the mirror, but his attention is entirely on my hair, and I watch, stunned, as he gently works the brilliantine into my hair, combing it very neatly. The teeth of the comb drag over my scalp pleasantly, and it feels _good_ , feels indulgent, in a way it never does from my own hand. He displays such tenderness that I can feel my heart beating all the faster in my chest, that he should treat my hair with such care and focus, with such  _love._ He is silently diligent, utterly concentrated on his work, and I watch as his exacting gaze finds my parting and neatens it, that it should be as straight as if I had combed back my hair myself.

I don’t say anything.

I feel that if I say something, it should break this curious spell, the warmth that lingers upon my breast, his dutiful focus upon my toilette, as if it is something he _ought_ concern himself with, as if—

“There,” he says. “Dashed perfect, Jeeves, if I do say so myself.” His fingers linger on my shoulder, and then, as if burned, draw rapidly back. I ache for their return, and know it will not come.

“Yes, sir,” I say. My tone is somewhat breathless, but I don’t believe he notices. He smiles to himself, proud of his work, and he sets the comb back on the table, drawing back and away. I watch, dumb, as the bathroom door opens, and then neatly closes again, behind him.

I sit like that, just so, for quite some time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open.


End file.
